Weaving Words

book opened on top of white table beside closed red book and round blue foliage ceramic cup on top of saucer

Photo by Suzy Hazelwood on Pexels.com

Weaving Words

. . . A Poet’s Calling

I wander my world 
weaving words into verse
plaiting my thoughts 
into silken skeins of sense
rendering images
from my mind’s eye
to this digital paper
perverse perception
lending life to poetry
lust to hope 
and love to mon amour
the written word.

 
Only in time
with wish fulfilment
perchance my dreams
will meet my expectations 
and produce that meisterwerk
whose impetus
drives me on.

 

sline6

 

 

 

Memento

 

Chambord-Loire-France

Chambord:  WHB – Pen & Wash

MEMENTO

 

What of me remains…
Persists when I have gone?

Take away my body
Deconstruct my presence
then rebuild an image
made only of memory
unique to each who knew me
no composite save each
biographed reflected anecdote

Save what I have created
those I have affected,
influenced, guided,
tainted I trust not,
as parent, teacher, associate,
as lover and as friend
as moderator and as judge
as poet and as peasant

Sic transit gloria mundi
And thus my light
in time
as light does
will fade from view

 

bar1

 

 

LANDAY … A Poet’s Legacy

The Landay is a traditional Afghan poetic form consisting of a single couplet. There are nine syllables in the first line, and thirteen syllables in the second. These short poems typically address themes of love, grief, contemplation, homeland, war, and separation.  Wikipedia

The couplet may rhyme, although this is not a requirement.

white book beside white mug

Photo by Ekrulila on Pexels.com


And when, at last, I come to the end,

Will those who remain be enriched by the words I’ve penned?


 

WHB.  July 2019 … ©

 

scroll2

Poet Manqué

monochrome photography of person holding book

Photo by Martin Péchy on Pexels.com

You may not yet know it, 
But I am a poet. 
I wait for my muse to inspire. 

I try not to show it, 
Hard work, I forgo it, 
My verses, not cheap, but not dire

So, call me a fool, 
Say I’m not cool, 
But of rhyming I never will tire. 

It’s my trade’s greatest tool, 
And while others may drool, 
I’ll do it until I retire.

 

Bar-Rose

The Thralldom of Words

close up of eyeglasses on book

Photo by ugurlu photographer on Pexels.com

The Thralldom of Words

How unreal
Insensate 
Would this life be
Without words
Sterile
Without the sounds to sing my feelings
The joy of Tongue
Touched by language
Threaded through thought
Expressed
In silken sound
Tempered by the vernacular
Enriched by our true poets

Sounds of the lover’s
Throbbing pleasure
Silken sounds
Of the singer of songs
Soulful
sensuous
That’s what it’s all about, Alfie. 

Living life
Loses meaning 
Is unreal 
Without 
The thrall of words
In trusted tomes
Found fables and
The lust for legend
Joy discovered
In mildewed texts
Throbbing with
Sound
Sense
And feeling

abstract black and white blur book

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

redline-thin

Pleasure in a WORD

THROB

THROB

 

As I woke
a word arrived in my consciousness
unasked
unaided

… THROB …

short word
tripped from my dreams
tumbled through my lips
to spill its delight into the morning air

Dug
pleasurably
from my waking consciousness
as my tongue savoured its existence
rolled itself around both lips
and my mouth accommodated itself
to its cadence

Measuring Its measure
against my throat’s resonance
thrusting the sound
up and out
into the waiting
wondering
world
pleased to be out in the morning air
a thrill to emit
listening as it cuts
sensuously
with a flautist ‘s thrust 
through the sensuous surrounding air

The poet’s morning chorus
a sound to be repeated
joyously
with fervour
pleasurably
savouring its cadence

Repeated
it resounds in the room
lingering as it ends 
lingering as I make 
that final occlusion
voicing its
bilabial stop
strong
sensuous
evocative 
voluptuous in its warmth
flirtatious in its coquettishness

Onomatopoeic pleasure
so soulfully satisfying
in its sound-print

Its exultant cry of existence

BluBanner

Weaving Words

abstract blur book book pages

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Weaving Words

 

(The Poet’s Calling)

 

I wander my world 
weaving words into verse
plaiting my thoughts 
into silken skeins of sense
rendering images
from my mind’s eye
to this digital paper
perverse perception
lending life to poetry
lust to hope 
and love to mon amour
the written word. 

Only in time
with wish fulfilment
perchance my dreams
will meet my expectations 
and produce that meisterwerk
whose impetus
drives me on

 

Banner3b

‘First Fig’ – Edna St.Vincent Millay

[  # 80 of My Favourite Short Poems  ]

emillay

Edna St. Vincent Millay was an American poet and playwright who was born in Rockland, Maine, in 1892.  I have used a short poem of  hers before in this series – in November of 2017, q.v. . . .    ‘What Lips My Lips Have Kissed’ .

This poem is even shorter, but I find that it does have a  lot to say, about her own lifestyle and about the times and the milieu which she inhabited in her heyday in 1920s New York.   Millay titled the book in which this poem was published A Few Figs From Thistles, and this poem was the first one in the book, hence ‘First Fig’.

The poem is highly symbolic and the opening line plunges the reader into that arresting metaphor which she uses to describe her wild, bohemian, certainly unorthodox spirit.   The second line, however, recognises the ephemeral nature of such an existence with the bitter-sweet ‘It will not last the night’.  She is acknowledging that brightness is not all, a candle burning simultaneously from both ends will burn twice as quickly and such hedonistic times will not last.

bar-green

Figs from Thistles: First Fig

 

My candle burns at both ends;

   It will not last the night;

But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—

   It gives a lovely light!

 

2-ended candle

 

bar-green

Am I a POET?

 

calliope

CALLIOPE: the muse who presides over eloquence and epic poetry; 

Am I a POET?

I’m a poet!  Who are you?
Are you a Poet, too?
 
Do I write poetry?
I say I do;
But is it poetry I write?
What say you?

 Was it by sweated brow,
By haunted vision,
I overcame my indecision?

 Did Damascene insights,
Or inspiration’s muse,
Give birth
To my poetic views?

 This begs the question
Long undecided:
Am I a Poet,
Famed or derided?


 

I wrote a poem the other day,
or was it just words
in a different order,
pretending
to have their own reason for existence?

Such feelings are
The price I pay;
when I say
I am a poet
am I honest,
do I really know it?

Addressing myself
I’ve learned to ask,
and every time I pen a poem
I set myself this very task . . .


Can I really
hand on heart
claim to be
a tiny part
of all those great
illustrious sages
who’ve coloured
life’s dramatic pages
in epics, sonnets,
ballads and odes,
presenting prose
in verbal codes,
fantasising fecund dreams,
massaging thoughts and wild ideas,
composing their Byronic idylls,
word music of the spheres?

The net result,
always the same,
I know I’ll have
no claim to fame.

Such images,
they prove to me,
that shallow thoughts,
marshmallow words,
can never in a thousand years,
however many sweated tears,
make me one of their poetic peers.

 


 

Poets Corner